by AJ Steiger
She rolls her eyes. “I don’t have to take that from some posh, uppity bitch who was grown in a petri dish. You’re barely even human.” She says it almost casually, tossing the insult lazily in my direction before turning away. As if it doesn’t matter. As if the words don’t rip me open.
And suddenly Ian’s in her face, looming over her. “Take that back,” he says, his voice dangerously soft.
“Back off,” she says, “or that pretty-boy face of yours is going to be all bloody.”
“Take it back!”
She laughs. “Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Her fist whips out. Blood flies through the air, and he staggers backward. I scream Ian’s name and lunge forward, but the crowd is closing around them, blocking my path.
Ian swings. His fist clips her on the cheek, and she hoots in excitement. “That’s more like it!” She widens her stance and beckons him with both hands. “Let’s see what you got.”
He grabs her arm, and then they’re wrestling in a blur of limbs as the crowd hoots and roars all around us. She tackles him, pinning him between her knees, and slams his head against the floor. Her friends go wild, jumping up and down and cheering her name.
This is insane. I have to get her away from Ian. I think she might actually kill him.
I shove my way through the crowd, lunge at Shana and grab a fistful of her hair, yanking her head back. She cries out. I seize both her arms and haul her off Ian as she struggles. There’s blood on her face, blood in her hair. Ian’s on the floor, gasping, bleeding from a split lower lip. His eyes are wide and dazed. “Holy shit,” he mutters.
Shana breaks free from me and charges at Ian, howling. Two burly young men grab her arms, dragging her backward. She thrashes like a cat in a bag until one man presses a gun to the back of her head. She freezes. “I think you need a few hours in the timeout room,” he says.
Her breathing quickens. Panic flashes in her eyes. “Let me go, you prick!”
The other man presses a small hypo to her neck. She jerks, shudders, and goes limp. They carry her away. For a second or two, I almost feel sorry for her.
I crouch beside Ian, who’s still on his back. One side of his face is rapidly swelling. When I touch his cheek, he flinches. Carefully, I brush his hair back, examining his eyes. “We need to find a medic.”
He averts his gaze. “I’m fine.”
“Now.”
21
Within minutes, I find one of the medics, marked by a white sash tied around her arm. She’s maybe nineteen; she has pink streaks dyed into her hair and huge, gold hoop earrings, and the sleeves of her black shirt look like they’ve been chewed up by rats. She takes us to a room in the med wing and tells Ian to follow a light with his eyes, then asks him his name and age and has him count backward from ten. “Any dizziness? Nausea?”
“No. Just a headache. A small one.”
She nods. “Lie down for awhile and don’t do anything too strenuous for the rest of the day. You should be fine.”
She leaves, closing the door. Ian is stretched out on the cot, staring at the ceiling through his good eye. The other is a puffy slit.
“How are you feeling?”
He tries to smile, then winces. “Could be worse.” He turns his face toward the wall. “Embarrassed, mostly.”
“Why?”
“Do you really need to ask? You just watched me get beaten up by a girl.”
“By Shana,” I correct. “She’s more like a cross between a shark and a psychotic baboon.”
One corner of his mouth lifts, then falls.
I pull up a chair and sit. “Thank you, by the way. For standing up for me.”
“I just made things worse. She probably hates you even more now.”
“I’m not sure that’s possible. But even if it is, I don’t care. It helps, knowing that someone is on my side.”
A light flush creeps into his cheeks. “I’m sorry she said those things to you.”
A lump fills my throat, and I push it down. “Maybe she had a point.”
“Lain.” His voice is firm. “Don’t let her get under your skin. She’s the one with the problem here, not you. If she gives you any more trouble, tell someone. Okay?”
I nod, studying my feet. I know what he’s saying is true, but even so, Shana’s words have lodged themselves somewhere inside me, and I can’t shake them loose. I can’t hate her, either—not now. I see her in my head, a tiny, fierce-eyed girl wielding a frying pan, trying to protect someone she loved. And for that simple, understandable gesture, the system squashed her like a bug.
The Blackcoats are bound together by their pain. I’ve suffered too, but not in the same way, not for the same reasons. Here, Ian and I are the outsiders. “Lately,” I whisper, “I’ve been wondering if I made the right choice, coming here.”
“I know the feeling.” He hesitates. “Is everything okay? I mean… between you and Steven. I don’t see you two together very often.”
I swallow, throat tight. “What Steven does is his own business.”
“You don’t have to pretend, Lain.”
I meet his gaze—those clear, earnest eyes.
They’re beautiful. It’s just a fact. My mind flashes to an incident back in Greenborough High. I was in the bathroom, washing my hands, and overheard two girls talking and giggling. I caught Ian’s name and honed in on their conversation. “I know,” one of them cooed. “He’s soooo yummy. His eyes are like melted chocolate.”
“Eyes? I was looking at another part.”
More giggling. I bristled. Ian and I were never more than friends, but it bothered me to hear them talking about him like that, like he was candy and they wanted to eat him up. Ian was always popular, but it always seemed to me that most people just wanted to talk about the surface of him—the crazy parties he threw, or his wild clothes and hairstyles. No one knew how honest and gentle and kind he was, how giving. Even I never fully understood that, until recently.
“He drowned,” Ian says suddenly.
The words jerk me back to the present. “Who?”
“My brother. He drowned. When I was ten.” He closes his eyes. “My mom never got over it. He was her favorite. I mean, she’d never admit that, obviously. But if you’d ever met him, you’d understand. I think… ever since he died, maybe, I’ve just been trying to be him. To fill the space he left behind.”
There’s a dull throb in the center of my chest. I reach out and take his hand, sliding my fingers between his. The gesture is instinctive, natural.
“I should have done something,” he says. “I should have swum out and tried to save him. But I just stood there on the beach, screaming for him to come back. I was afraid of the ocean. I never waded in more than a few feet.”
“It wasn’t your fault,” I say. “You were just a child.”
“Believe me, I’ve been over all this. After it happened, my mom sent me to a lot of therapists, and they told me the same thing, all of them. But the fact is that I stood there and did nothing, and my brother died. I spent the rest of my life trying to be perfect, to make up for it. But I didn’t dare let anyone in. And then, suddenly, you were there.”
I’m aware of my pulse beating away in the hollow of my wrist, and I wonder if he can feel it.
“When I met you,” he says, “it was like you saw through all that. You saw me. Not the big, loud, fake me, but the one on the inside.” He smiles. It looks like it hurts. “Sorry. I barely know what I’m saying. Maybe that knock on the head scrambled my brains a little, after all.”
“It’s all right.” I swallow. And suddenly, I can’t stop staring at his lips. They’re a shade between pink and beige, fuller than Steven’s, softer-looking, and I wonder suddenly what they’d feel like—if it would be different.
What’s wrong with me? He just told me about his brother’s death, and I’m fantasizing about kissing him. How sick am I?
“Lain?”
His voice makes me jump, and I quickly stand u
p. “I—I’m sorry. I should—”
“It’s okay.” His fingers dig into the cot, knuckles white. “Go on. Steven is probably worried about you.”
I’m not sure Steven even knows what happened; he left the mess hall with Rhee before the fight. But that’s not really the point. Ian is giving me an opening, a chance to leave before I weaken and do something I might regret. That’s the sort of person he is. He’ll never pressure me, never accept anything I’m not fully prepared to give. “But your head…”
“Is fine. I’m bruised, but that’s all.”
A part of me wants to stay. To keep holding his hand and looking into his eyes—to be with someone I understand, who understands me. But I can’t. I’m already so confused; I need space to breathe, to think.
Quietly, I leave the room and walk down the hall. I stop, lean against the wall, and squeeze my eyes shut.
Ian has been my friend for so long. Even if he hasn’t always been in the foreground of my consciousness, he’s always there. Like the sun. You hardly ever think about its existence—it’s just in the sky, shining away, but if it ever disappeared, the whole world would go dark. I wonder if the sun ever feels unappreciated.
I look down at my hand, flexing and curling the fingers, remembering the sensation of his fingers interlocking with mine like puzzle pieces.
“Hey…”
I open my eyes to see Steven standing in the hallway, looking baffled. “The medic told me that you and Ian were here. What happened?”
I look away. “He had a fight with Shana. He’s not injured, though.”
“A fight?” he repeats. “Like, a fight-fight?”
“He was defending me. It’s complicated. But everything’s fine now.” I know that’s not much of an answer, but it’s all I can muster.
Steven nods uncertainly. There’s a rifle strapped to his back, I notice. That’s new. Does he just carry it with him all the time, now?
Lately, it’s so awkward to be alone with him. Though, come to think of it, this is the first time in several days that that’s actually happened. We both hang in the hallway for a few seconds, and I feel like I should say something, but I have no idea what. I’ve studied psychology. You’d think that would make me better at human relationships. Apparently not. “How have you been?” I ask at last. My voice comes out stiff, like I’m talking to an acquaintance at a party.
“I’m all right, thanks.”
He does look healthier, I realize. He’s gained weight—which he desperately needed—and his arms are corded with muscle. He’s blossoming here. He’s found his place, his people. Maybe I should be happy for him.
But I wanted his place to be with me, not with a band of antigovernment radicals.
He exhales a gust of breath. There’s an uncertain look on his face, and I have the sense that the barrier between us has cracked open, just a little. “Listen, Lain, I… I know things have been kind of weird lately, but…” He rubs his face. “Damn it. I suck at this stuff.”
“Well, you could start by explaining why you’ve been ignoring me.” The words come out a little more tart than I intended.
He tenses. “You haven’t exactly been friendly with me, either.”
“I wanted to talk to you. But you were never around.” And every time I saw him, he was with Rhee.
He shrugs, gaze averted. “I’ve been going through some stuff, okay? I needed to clear my head.”
“Well? Is your head clear now?”
“Pretty much.” He meets my eyes. “I’ve decided that I’m going to go on the next mission. Whatever comes up. I’ve been training long enough. I want to start doing something.”
So, he’s still committed to staying with the Blackcoats. Not that I’m really surprised.
There are so many other things I want to say. I want to tell him that I miss him, that I just want things to be the way they were between us. But when I open my mouth, the words won’t come out. “Be careful,” I say instead.
“Sure. I will.” A pause. “You could come with me, you know.”
I shake my head. “I’m useless with a gun. You know that.”
His expression goes blank. The opening is closing off, and we’re back to acting like strangers. “Suit yourself.” He turns and walks away, down the hall.
There’s a stiffness in my chest, like the inside has been turned to wood. Steven doesn’t need me anymore. He’s going his own way. And when we’re together, all we seem to do is cause each other pain.
And suddenly the voice of my Psych-Ethics professor is back in my head, nattering away: What did you expect? You chose to become intimate with a client, even knowing the risks. You abused your position of power over him. Why are you surprised that it went wrong?
But he wanted it as much as I did. He wanted me. He loves me, he—
It’s called codependence. Clients often develop strong feelings for their Mindwalkers. But to pursue such a relationship always ends in disaster. You knew that, didn’t you?
Yes, I knew. I was arrogant enough to think that we could beat the statistics, that our love was stronger than society’s rules.
Even with the evidence in front of me, I don’t want to believe that our relationship was based on something as flimsy as need. Yet, from an outside, objective viewpoint, it seems undeniable. When we met, he was suicidal, and I was his last thread of hope. His survival was dependent on my willingness to help him. I should have recognized what was happening, but like any stupid child with a crush, I blinded myself. And now, I feel like he’s slipping away, like I’m losing him forever.
Maybe I’ve already lost him.
I feel a hand on my shoulder, give a start, and whirl around. It’s Nicholas—the last person I want to see right now.
“Zebra requests your presence,” he says.
There’s something odd about his eyes—I’ve always thought so. The whites are too white. Even the red threads of capillaries at the corners look too perfect, somehow. “For what?”
“You’ll see.” He starts to walk, his long black coat swishing around his legs.
“Wait,” I blurt out. “Can’t I tell Ian where I’m going? He’s in the med wing.”
He pauses to look over his shoulder. “This is top secret. Tell no one. If you disobey me, I will be very displeased.” He resumes walking.
I follow, teeth gritted.
Nicholas stops in front of what appears to be a blank wall, runs his fingertips over the metal, and prizes open a hidden panel. He presses a thumb to the screen, which blinks. A section of the wall swings inward, revealing a long, narrow corridor lit by bluish lights. We walk to the end of the corridor, and he opens another door, revealing Zebra’s study. Apparently, the Gate room isn’t the only way in.
Cautiously, I step forward. Nicholas stays behind as the door rumbles shut, leaving me alone once again with the leader of the Blackcoats.
22
Zebra sits behind his desk, reading a book bound in wine-colored leather. “Ah. Lain.” He sets the book on the desk. “Good to see you again.”
I glance at the book’s title. Paradise Lost.
“John Milton,” he remarks, running his finger over the gold-embossed title on the leather cover. “Have you read his work?”
“A long time ago,” I say. Father had Paradise Lost in his collection too.
“‘The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a Heav’n of Hell, a Hell of Heav’n,’” he quotes. “A fascinating insight, don’t you think? Milton was quite the psychologist.”
I make a noncommittal sound. “I suppose Lucifer is your favorite character? Being the leader of the rebellion and all.”
“Eve, actually. I always thought she was misunderstood.”
My gaze wanders. So many books. Has he read them all? I wonder, suddenly, if he ever leaves this room. Why does he so rarely show himself to the Blackcoats? Why is Nicholas the one who hosts the Assemblies, the one who relays his orders? True, Nicholas is young, handsome, able-bodied,
and good at giving dramatic speeches. Superficially, at least, he’s a more appealing figurehead. But Zebra is the one whose name they revere. They use his initial as their symbol. Is there some other reason he hides himself away?
“Tell me,” he says, “do you think it was worth it?”
My brow furrows. “What?”
“The Fall. Was gaining free will worth the loss of Eden?”
I can’t quite suppress the urge to roll my eyes. “Did you call me here for a mission or a book club discussion?”
A smile tugs at one corner of his mouth. “Well, since you’re so eager…” He turns his chair and glides toward the bookshelf on the back wall. He slides out a book and keys in the code on the hidden panel behind it, and the shelf opens with a grinding rumble, revealing the Gate room. A gasp flies from my mouth.
Inside, strapped to the chair—shoulders slumped, head bowed—is a young, dark-haired man in a bloodied, light gray suit and jacket. The Gate’s sleek white helmet covers his hair. Raspy, pained breathing echoes through the room. He stirs, but he doesn’t seem to have the strength even to look up.
So much blood. It drips from his face, staining the front of his shirt. A small puddle of it shines on the floor. He doesn’t appear to be seriously injured, but he’s obviously been beaten. “Who is this?” I whisper.
“His name is Aaron Freed. He’s a Mindwalker, and Dr. Swan’s new protégé. Since you and Ian fled the nest, I suppose Swan needed some other young thing to use as his puppet.”
So, what Dr. Swan said in that interview is true. I’ve been replaced. Maybe he’d been secretly grooming replacement Mindwalkers all along, just in case Ian and I didn’t work out. The thought leaves a bitter taste on my tongue.
Slowly, Aaron raises his head. He’s wearing glasses, the lenses cracked and smeared. His left eye is swollen shut, engulfed in black and purple flesh; his right is the startlingly bright green of a leaf in summer, peering out through a maze of cracks.